"Morning, Mr. Peters," said Mr. Bennett. "Very good of you to run down.
Take a seat, and I'll just go through the few notes I have made about
the matter."
"Mr. Bennett," exclaimed Jno. Peters. "May--may I speak?"
"What do you mean? Eh? What? Something to say? What is it?"
Mr. Peters cleared his throat awkwardly. He was feeling embarrassed at
the unpleasantness of the duty which he had to perform, but it was a
duty, and he did not intend to shrink from performing it. Ever since,
gazing appreciatively through the drawing-room windows at the charming
scene outside, he had caught sight of the unforgettable form of Billie,
seated in her chair with the sketching-block on her knee, he had
realised that he could not go away in silence, leaving Mr. Bennett
ignorant of what he was up against.
One almost inclines to fancy that there must have been a curse of some
kind on this house of Windles. Certainly everybody who entered it
seemed to leave his peace of mind behind him. Jno. Peters had been
feeling notably happy during his journey in the train from London, and
the subsequent walk from the station.
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